


Ghost + Lighthouse

by impossiblepluto



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Found Family, Gen, Halloween, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt Angus Macgyver (Macgyver 2016), Hurt/Comfort, Possible Paranormal Activity, Protective Jack Dalton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-31 02:11:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21045767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: Jack has a new list of rules:1. No more cleaning up CIA messes2. No more missions around Halloween3. Absolutely no more haunted islands





	Ghost + Lighthouse

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween Mac Fam!  
Since we aren't going to get a Halloween episode and STILL don't have a premiere date, I thought I'd get this story out there a few days earlier than planned.  
Hope you enjoy it and as always, thanks for reading!
> 
> (i absolutely did not scare myself while writing this...)

The helicopter pitches, tossed by the violent October winds. Jack tenses the muscles in his legs, bracing against the floor, resisting the urge to reach out and grasp onto something. To yank the joystick from the pilot's hand and take over. He knows she's perfectly capable, has flown with her multiple times, he's just on edge. His jaw clenched with tension. He turns to look at his team in the seat behind him.

Mac looks decidedly green, and grapples for the “oh shit” handle next to the door. The turbulence in the air mimicking the waves below, turning the flight into an unpleasant adventure in aerodynamics.

Riley's focused on her rig in her lap, monitoring the storm they're flying through, closing her eyes periodically during particularly rough bouts of turbulence. While Bozer braces one hand on the door and other grasps the harness of his seat belt.

Jack knows his own stress about this mission is bleeding onto his kids. He makes an effort to reign in his discomfort, but it's too late. Everyone is painfully aware that Jack most definitely, one hundred percent does not want to be here. It sounds like a milk run on paper. Those missions are the worst. He’d rather know up front he’s walking into a cobra’s den.

“There she is,” the pilot says, pointing to the northeast.

Squinting through the rain and fog, Jack gets his first glimpse of Cana Island. It’s small, two miles across, surrounded by razor-toothed rocks bursting from the depths. A speck of color in a swirling sea. Gray water, gray sky, meeting at an ever-darkening horizon. White-capped waves buffet the rocky shoreline.

A gaping pit of dread sinks deeper in Jack’s stomach, threatening to swallow him whole. Everything about this sits uneasy with him.

_ “Cana Island,” Matty said just a few hours ago in the War Room. _

_ “Aw, hell no, Matty,” Jack says, standing from the seat she'd coerced him into sitting in when they arrived for the debriefing.  
_

_ Mac turns a quizzical eye on Jack, searching through his brain for an anecdote that would explain Jack’s exclamation of dismay and suddenly pale features. _

_ On the screen, photos of the majestic lighthouse and attached living quarters built from cream colored brick rise out of the fog along the craggy isolated coastline. _

_ Matty fixes him with a look. Jack snaps his mouth shut and crosses his arms. Matty continues her debrief. _

_ “The lighthouse was commissioned by President Andrew Johnson in 1869 due to the treacherous waters, currents and rocky atolls surrounding the island that caused numerous shipwrecks and loss of life. It was one of his last acts in office.” _

A small forest of dense trees surround the buildings. Fog wafts from the treeline down the jagged rocks of the shore.

_ “It remained a manned station until 1989. During that time it was also used as a Coast Guard training post.” _

_ Riley’s fingers clack along her keyboard. Though she trusts Matty, she's never content with the official reports, she likes to do some of her own digging. _

_ “It’s haunted?” Riley asked, looking up from her rig. It suddenly explains Jack's vocal disapproval of the mission.  
_

_ “Come on, Matty, we ain’t ghostbusters,” Jack complained. _

_ “A rumor that’s circulated for years, given the number of shipwrecks in the area and the remoteness of the island.” _

_ “Who you gonna call?” Bozer half-sings, half-sighs under his breath. _

_ “Not us,” Jack replies firmly. “Tragedy has befallen every lighthouse keeper. Every Coast Guard and Naval unit that’s used it as a training base. It’s got more ghosts per square mile than any other place in the US.” _

_ “How do you know all of this?” Riley asks, looking up from her reading. Her brief perusal of the files looks like Jack’s assessment is accurate. _

_ “I know the places I don’t want to go.” _

_ Mac snorts. “He knows exactly how far he is from Cairo at any given time.” _

_ “Seven thousand, five hundred, seventy-six miles from our current location.” _

_ Mac holds out his hand in a motion that says ‘ _ see what I mean.’ _ Then turns to Matty. “So what’s going at the isle of the haunted that requires our assistance?” _

_ Matty rolls her eyes but decides against protesting the claims of ghostly sightings. She’ll never be able to disprove that to Jack’s satisfaction. Fighting that battle is a lost cause. Better to appeal to Jack’s hero side. _

_ “In the sixties, it was also used as a satellite relay station and CIA listening post. The whole lighthouse, including the listening post, was fully automated in the late eighties. The Coast Guard performs weekly visual inspections of the grounds and buildings and the CIA monitors the transmissions with analysts visiting the island for routine maintenance. _

Jack signals the pilot to circle the island, looking for any signs that a boat recently moored there. The precipitous shoreline empty. With reluctance, Jack agrees with the pilot to set down the bird.

“_Last week the Coast Guard dropped off four analysts. They planned to spend a week on the island, updating the systems, gathering data. They missed their pick up.” _

_ “And the CIA isn’t looking into this because…?” Jack’s questions. _

_ “We’re doing this as a favor.” _

_ “Seems like we’re always doing them favors when the islands are haunted,” Jack grumbles remembering another mission in late October two years ago. _

_ “The ghosts don’t seem malevolent,” Bozer offers, reading from Riley’s rig. “They say the most active one, the second keeper’s wife, Minnie, likes to make up the beds and do the dishes. I wouldn’t mind her dropping by our place once in a while.” _

_ “Yeah, did you read about the chill that settles into your bones that you can’t get rid of even once you’re home?” Jack asks, not amused with Bozer’s joke. “Sarah was there once. She was cold for months after, even when we were… you know… hands like ice,” Jack shivers. “Like the dead.” _

_ “We can leave you here, big guy, if you’re afraid,” Mac offers magnanimously, with a teasing smirk on his face. _

_ Jack growls. “If you decide to go there, I guess I’m going there too. But I don’t have to like anything about this.” _

Unsnapping his seat belt, Jack throws the door open, a blast of cold air hits him. _Get ready to be cold for months,_ he thinks bitterly. _I hope that’s the worst that happens_, and instantly bites his brain’s tongue.

He grabs his bag as he leaps from the helicopter, ducking his head as the rotors churn dirt and dead leaves. Jack would have preferred to fly in himself and keep the chopper. Argued with Matty about having an immediate ex-fil option on the island.

_ “I don’t like this “And Then There Were None” feeling I’m getting from this island. Half those people wouldn’t have died if they’d had a boat waiting for them.” _

_ “You’ve read Agatha Christie?” Matty asks incredulously. _

_ “I saw the mini-series with the Jurassic Park guy getting his head bashed in. All of them being hunted, murdered, and no way to leave. Stuck in a lonely house, on a lonely island, waiting for death to take them one by one.” _

The pilot gives a wave that Jack returns, watching the chopper slowly rise. He resists the urge to signal the pilot, throw his team inside and head for home, telling Matty the CIA can handle their own missing analyst situation.

Why is it always his problem when the CIA messes up? They certainly didn’t trust him at the end when he was working for them, now, here he is, cleaning up their messes. Typical.

A spackling of raindrops fall in uneven patterns, splattering against his skin. One elusive drop hits the back of his neck. Rolling beneath his jacket. Under his shirt collar. Leaving a cold trail along his spine.

He shivers.

Tells himself it’s only the raindrop that makes the hair on his neck stand up.

That there isn't a pair of eyes watching them from the underbrush. Or a soulless wraith wandering past hiding his presence in the icy wind.

Sizing them up. Gauging their weaknesses. Planning an attack, when to strike and which one of them to hit first.

“Lighthouse is this way,” Mac says from next to his shoulder the words muffled by the steady crash of waves, and whistle of wind. And Jack absolutely does not startle at the words. He follows the path Mac points out, a few feet from the edge of the bluffs. A thick overhang of trees on one side. A sheer drop into the ocean on the other. The waves that buffet the rocks, crash over the top leaving the path soaked. He leads the way, with Mac taking up the rear.

The ocean sneezes a fine mist, chilling him to the bone as he hugs the treeline.

The trees rustle.

A squeaking moan as branches rub against each other.

“If this place isn’t haunted it’s putting a lot of great ambiance to waste,” Bozer comments, following closely behind Jack.

Jack’s eyes scan the path, peering into the treeline, still watching for unseen eyes that observe them.

The path is a slow and steady incline to the crest of the bluff where the lighthouse sits, the highest point on the island. The battering waves can’t breach the nearly thirty-foot bluff. The damp pummeling from the mist lessens and the path dries out, infinitesimally, though the solid escarpment still doesn’t reveal any footprints of those walking this path before them.

If they were ghosts they wouldn’t leave footprints anyway.

The rain falling steadily, the tempo increasing from a patter of drizzle to a something just shy of a torrential downpour. Golden leaves overhead block the worst of it, but Jack still picks up the pace, glancing behind him to make sure his team follows.

The wind shakes the branches. The leaves dance and drop the water they hold.

They reach the ridge, breaking from the tree line into an open field. Dodging puddles as they cross.

Riley and Mac immediately head to the door, entering access codes and overriding bio-metric scanners. Bozer stands his back toward them, watching the treeline nervously. He scrubs rainwater from his eyes.

Jack stalks around the building, muttering warnings against apparitions. It’s bigger than he expected. Taller too. He searches the softer ground around the buildings for muddy footprints, but anything useful was washed away in the storm.

There’s a barn on one side of the clearing and a utility shed on the opposite. He plans to search both buildings after he clears the house and tower. So far there are no signs that anyone has been here recently.

“Got it,” Riley calls out, as the door swings open, and they lug their gear inside.

Jack shivers as he crosses the threshold. “It’s cold in here.”

“Yeah,” Mac says frowning. “Colder than I would expect.” He flicks a light switch experimentally. Nothing happens. “They’re supposed to have a power supply to run the tech.”

Wide windows allow enough light to guide them as they make their way further into the house, while casting long shadows against the walls. A sitting room, kitchen and tiny bedroom make up the ground floor.

Riley immediately heads for the series of computers set up in the living room, tapping buttons to wake the devices from their apparent sleep mode. “These are off too.”

“I’ll look for a power source,” Mac says, walking through the kitchen to find circuit breakers or the generators he remembers from the schematics he studies, shaking water droplets from his long hair as he goes.

“Guess I’ll clear the rest of the house. You three stay together,” he instructs, not leaving until he extracts a promise from each of them. He plants Bozer at the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, his back to the wall to prevent anyone from sneaking up on him, and a vantage point where he can see both Mac and Riley as they become engrossed in their own tasks.

With another curt instruction to “watch out for each other,” Jack leaves the three younger members of the team and ascends the stairs.

The second story of the house is three small bedrooms. Supposedly used by the analysts when they visit the island. Jack systematically clears them, searching under the beds and in wardrobes and closets. He finds no signs of life. No gear or unmade beds, but someone must have been through recently because the furniture is neatly polished, not a speck of dust.

And despite the ghost stories he's read, he doesn't quite believe that there's a spirit spending her afterlife cleaning up the house.

He finds an attic in one of the closets and pulls himself half-inside. He cracks the seal on a few fire-proof boxes of old paper records dating back to the fifties, hoping that no one cares about his rummaging but no sign of the missing analysts or ghosts.

Jack clomps back down the stairs and into the living room.

Riley is plugging her back up rig into the system, never connecting her personal computer into an unknown network if she can help it, and certainly not into a CIA listening post. She trusts herself, her hardware and her rig, but she doesn’t trust the CIA.

“Nothing upstairs,” Jack says as he enters the living room. “Not even dust.”

Bozer frowns and runs his fingers along the shelf on the wall filled with knick-knacks left behind by the previous occupants of the island. “Here too.” He smiles. “At least this island is haunted by a clean ghost.”

Jack grunts. “Minnie must be hard at work.”

There’s a snap of electricity from the fuse box and Mac jumps back, shoving his fingers in his mouth.

“What are you doing?” Jack asks, frowning as he steps further into the kitchen.

“All the fuses are blown. I made a few gum wrapper repairs but they won’t hold for long,” Mac mumbles around his fingers.

“You alright?”

Mac nods. “Mild shock.”

Jack snatches Mac’s hand to look at his fingers.

“Mild? Your fingertips are singed.” He pushes against the reddened skin. Mac hisses, trying to pull his hand away but Jack's grip is firm. The reddened skin blanches with pressure and the color returns when Jack releases it.

Keeping Mac’s hand in his, he leads Mac over to the kitchen sink.

“Think there’s any power to the water pump?” He asks and is unsurprised when turning both handles on full blast leaks only a trickle.

“My canteen’s cold, I’ll pour some water over the burns and cover them,” Mac says, then holds up his three burned fingers with a smirk. “Scout’s honor.”

“You’re real funny, dude.”

“Go check out the lighthouse,” Mac pushes him back into the living room. “Unless you’re trying to get out of going up there?” He teases.

“I should make you go up there, smartass,” Jack growls. He thinks about grabbing Bozer and making him come with, but he wants someone watching Mac and Riley while they’re distracted and engrossed in their projects.

There’s a small breezeway, a hallway, probably just long enough that he could lay down in, a door on each end separating the living quarters from the lighthouse tower. If he thought it was cold in the house, it’s frigid in here. He stands at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at the dizzying height.

His footsteps clang against metal stairs, echoing through the cylindrical chamber. Up to the top, hitting the ceiling and reverberating back down.

Ninety-seven steps.

Silently, he counts each one.

Despite the cool temperatures, he has a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead when he reaches the platform at the top of the stairs. He pauses a moment, catching his breath before pushing against the metal door leading to the gallery. The hinges scream in protest, rusted and sticking. The room, surrounded by old drafty windows, letting in the dreary gray light.

The automated light flashes a rhythmic pattern, reflecting against the growing fog back into the gallery.

Jack circles the lantern room. No dust. No footprints.

“You do nice work, Minnie. I’ll tell ya that,” he whispers. “If you could just hold off on the spookin' for the next few days while we figure out what’s going on around here, I’d appreciate it.”

He can hear the rush of waves, but the water, though the cliff's edge only feet away from the lighthouse is shadowed and hidden from view.

Grasping the handle of the door to the outside gallery deck, he pushes it open, stepping out into the rain. He squints, surveying the surrounding area, using his bird’s eye view to get a better idea of the lay of the land, seeking any signs of life. He’ll need to do a sweep of the island too.

Jack steps back inside, closing and latching the door tightly behind him.

One final look around the open space and he turns to the door and begins his descent, counting again each clanking step. He frowns. Listening.

Pauses on step seventy-three.

Footsteps continue.

“Mac?” Jack calls, leaning over the cool metal rail, looking down toward the floor from a dizzying height. “You coming up here?”

There’s no answering call from his friend.

It’s silent except for Jack’s breathing. He listens intently.

Silent as a tomb.

“Oh, yeah, great analogy there, Dalton.” Then shakes himself for letting his imagination get the better of him.

He starts down the stairs again.

And the footsteps follow.

Footsteps from above.

Jack whirls on the steps. Eyes scanning, searching, leaning over and this time looking toward the ceiling and the tiny windowed room he just left.

They don’t stop this time.

Getting closer.

A cool blast of air brushes against his skin as the footsteps continue past him, and then start to fade.

Down the stairs. Away from Jack.

Toward the living quarters.

His team.

Jack's heart leaps in his throat as he races down the stairs, feet pounding on the grated metal.

Ignoring the chill that tickles the back of his neck. Slamming the door from the lighthouse. Skidding through the breezeway.

He hits the door between the lighthouse and the living quarters at a full run. The door explodes opens as Jack bursts through, startling everyone on the other side.

“Jack?” Mac spins on his heel, standing from where he tinkered with a generator, trying to coax more power for Riley to draw from.

“We gotta go. Call Matty. No. Call the pilot. Get her back here pronto.” Jack rushes over to Riley, reaching out to unplug her laptop.

“Whoa! Hands off there,” Riley says sharply, pushing away his hands to protect her tools. “You don’t see me grabbing for your gun. Don’t mess with my rig.”

“No time, Riles. Leave it here then.”

“Jack! What are you talking about,” Mac reaches out to grab Jack’s shoulder and slow his whirlwind through the room

“The analyst team must have done something to piss off the ghosts. They are here.”

“Why? What did you see?” Bozer asks with a nervous gulp, looking around the room.

“Not see, hear. Footsteps, following me down from the lantern room.”

Mac frowns, heading for the door leading to the tower.

Jack grabs at his arm. “Uh uh, come on, kid.”

Mac shrugs out of Jack’s hold. “You sure it wasn’t just some sort of echo?”

“I know an echo, Mac. Do echoes keep going even after I stop walking?”

“Sometimes. It’s an echo.”

“Can an echo walk past me?”

Mac pushes through both doors, craning his neck to look up. “I don’t see anything.”

Jack scoffs, following Mac through. “I told you, I didn’t see it. Just heard it and felt it.”

“Felt it?” Bozer squeaks.

“What did it feel like?” Riley asks, scooting slightly closer to Jack, crowding the doorway behind Mac.

“Like a cold shadow pushing past me.”

Riley and Bozer shiver, and inch closer to Jack.

Mac squares his shoulders, taking a step towards the stairs.

“I don’t hear anything,” Mac says, trying to regain the situation. He pauses with his foot on the bottom step, still looking upward.

“That’s because it’s not there anymore,” Jack says, then whispers. “It was heading in there.” He gestures with his thumb at the living quarters behind them.

Even Mac freezes at the words. He can’t help it.

“I didn’t hear it in there either,” Mac whispers back. “I admit it’s a creepy island. More so since those analysts went missing but…”

Jack sniffs. He turns back to look in the living room, peering through the door they left open on their mad dash. “Hey, Mac, when did you build a fire?”

Mac turns from the stairs, pushing past Jack back into the home. “I didn’t…” his voice trails off. A warm glow in the fireplace, crackling and popping.

“Can an echo build a fire?”

“There’s a logical explanation to this,” Mac says, looking around the room.

Jack grunts.

“Like a live ember buried under the coals,” Mac crosses the room to the fireplace. He squats next to the glowing flames, holding out a hand to feel the warmth as if he can’t believe just his eyes. And the crackle he hears. And the scent of wood burning.

“Or a dead body buried under the floor,” Jack reluctantly moves to stand next to Mac. “I don’t like this, bud. Come on, get away from the ghostly fire.”

“Jack, when you burst through the door like that it probably stirred up the embers in the fireplace. Oxygen hit a live coal and sparked a flame. This happens all the time when people improperly put out their fires.”

“Okay, fine, you can science away the fire. I don’t buy it, but I’ll give that to you. What about the footsteps.”

Mac leans in close and lowers his voice. “Are you sure it wasn’t your imagination? All the talk about this place being haunted and--”

Jack sputters. “I know what I heard, dude.”

“There could still be an explanation for that. A trick with sound waves. Like the Capitol building in Austin. Remember that, how you can whisper something in the middle of the rotunda and people in the outer hallways can hear what you said. Remember how you got kicked out for telling that dumb dirty joke.”

Jack snorts. “That’s a funny joke, they were just too stuffy to appreciate it, but I heard those security guards laughing as they escorted me out.”

“I think it had more to do with the fact that there was a school group coming through at the time.”

“High schoolers. I would have watched my mouth if there were little ears around. Don’t think I didn’t hear all those whispered f-bombs they were laughing uproariously about.”

Mac smiles indulgently and Jack sighs.

“Alright, maybe you’re right. My imagination got away from me a little bit there.”

“And despite your beef with the CIA, you wouldn’t leave those analysts here without conducting a thorough search.”

“Dang it, Mac. Alright. But I ain’t searching those outer buildings alone. Bozer,” Jack slaps the younger man on the shoulder, and Bozer lets out a squeak. “You and me, dude.”

Mac laughs at Jack’s newfound gung-ho attitude, and the discomfort crossing Bozer’s face. He watches Jack stalk confidently out into the rain, dragging a protesting Bozer with him.

He turns, staring at the fireplace with a frown.

“What’s got those hamster wheels turnin’ so fast, hoss?” Riley drawls, watching him.

Mac shakes himself and turns from the fire with a smile at Riley’s ploy. He shakes his head with a shrug. “Just thinking.”

“That is what you’re good at.”

Mac licks his lips. “I mean, it’s not a ghost. It can’t be a ghost.”

“Jack’s got you spooked?”

“No,” Mac scoffs. “I’m used to him believing in ghosts and vampires and other things that go bump in the night. And despite numerous attempts to prove that his neighbor is one of the undead, he's never... I've never seen him that... I mean, Riles, he was pale when he came back from checking the tower. And this is a big fire to spark without some help." He gestures to the fireplace, squatting down to take a closer look at the masonry and hearth.

"You'll figure it out."

"And what if I have to report to Matty that, yep, Jack's right, island's haunted."

"A ghost didn't make those people disappear," Riley states, but the expression on her face belies her confident tone. "And I've seen Jack more scared."

"Yeah," Mac turns to look over his shoulder with a grin, thinking she's going to reveal the dirt on a thirty year old Jack Dalton. She's stubbornly kept most stories and photos to herself.

"When he's worrying about you. So just because he spooked himself enough that he lost his Jack Dalton bravado for a second, doesn't mean that there are really ghosts here."

The wind rattles the windows in a sudden burst, and moans as it rushes around corners and through cracks. Both Riley and Mac jump, and share a sheepish laugh.

"You're right," Mac says, more confidently than he feels. He really needs to stop letting Jack and Bozer talk him scary movies. "Whatever's going on here, it's not the work of ghosts."

* * *

Jack turns up his collar and shivers deeper into his coat. The rain continues in a steady pattern and the wind blows it nearly sideways. He walks up to the edge of the cliff. Serrated rocks at the bottom, nearly covered by the ferocious waves. He can’t imagine trying to reach the island by boat even in recent times. It must have been a harrowing experience a century ago. It’s no wonder the lighthouse was necessary to steer ships away from the atolls hidden just below the surface. He’s surprised the Coast Guard agrees to check on the island so frequently.

“Storm’s getting worse,” Jack says, pausing for a second to look up at the darkening sky. “Not sure we could even get the helicopter back here tonight.”

“Glad I packed plenty of coffee,” Bozer says, flinches as the rain pelts him, like tiny needles pricking his skin. “I don’t think I’m going to be doing much sleeping tonight.”

Jack agrees. He’s going to suggest they camp out in the living room rather than make use of the bedrooms. He doesn’t want to split up again. He can feel his heart rate tick just a little faster leaving Riley and Mac behind in the house. Maybe he should have left Bozer with them. Safety in numbers.

He’s glad he’s not alone out here though. Mac’s teasing brought him around and relieves some of his anxiety but everything about this island gives him the heebee-jeebees.

The barn door swings open. It smells like moldy hay. Jack wonders about the animals that lived on the island over the years. Probably not horses, the island isn’t big enough and there’s nowhere to go. Maybe a milk cow, or goats. Chickens for laying. He wonders how they fared the treacherous journey by boat.

They open empty stalls, and Jack scrambles into the hayloft, sneezing the whole time.

“Nothing,” Jack says with disgust, climbing down the ladder. They find nothing out of the ordinary. And that makes everything so much worse. “Four people don’t just disappear on an island they can’t leave."

They finish their search of the barn and dash across the clearing to the utility shed.

Jack stops in his tracks just inside the shed.

“Guess you were right,” Bozer says, nearly tripping over Jack. “People don’t just disappear.”

Bozer steps further into the room, Jack grabs his arm.

“Don’t. It’s a crime scene.” Jack pulls his phone from his pocket, snapping photos of the body, a middle aged man, and the surrounding area. “Must be Damien Rivera,” Jack says recognizing him from the briefing.

Bozer looks around. “Do you think the others are dead too?”

Jack squats next to the body, carefully lifting an arm. “He’s in full rigor. That usually lasts about seventy-two hours.”

Bozer raises an eyebrow.

“There are a lot of forensic shows these days,” Jack says as an explanation with a shrug."Sometimes I can't sleep."

"And watching crime shows help?"

"Yeah, as long as they catch the guy. If they don't I have to figure out a plan to take him out if he were to come after us, and that will usually put me right to sleep."

"Mac's right, you are a weird dude sometimes."

Jack ignores the dig. “I thought the Coast Guard did a sweep of the grounds two days ago when they came for the pick up.”

“You think he was killed more recently?”

“You think Mac could build a liver probe?”

Bozer gags.

“It’s just a big miss on the Coast Guard’s end,” Jack rubs the scruff on his chin. “But where was he if he wasn’t dead?”

“Should we carry him into the house?”

Jack gapes at Bozer in horror. “You can’t disturb the evidence! Not until the coroner releases the scene.”

“So we just leave him here?”

“He’s not going anywhere.”

* * *

Riley frowns, working the puzzle in her mind as she clicks through old lighthouse keeper records again. Keepers and their wives, children, nieces, assistant keepers. Never staying more than a few years, some not making it through a season.

The island plagued with death. Not one family untouched.

Accidental.

Murders.

Attacks from rogue traders and pirates.

Fevers.

Falls from cliffs.

Storms that shook the house to the very foundation.

Drowning.

Crashing rocks.

Ghosts of the past. Footsteps on the stairs, cackles of laughter in the walls. Groans and cries of pain coming from deep within the earth. If she focused, Riley is sure she can hear them.

It’s a remote location, rife with shadows and storms, priming imaginations to feel uneasy tickles of dread.

She’s still not sure if she believes in ghosts or spirits or spooks.

She trusts Jack though. For all of his rants and stories and superstitions, when it counts he puts them aside and does the job. He was shaken after coming down from the lantern room. She’s seen him scared. This was different. She exuded confidence during her pep talk with Mac, but doubt still tickles the back of her mind.

Bozer and Jack's return, with reports of a body and crime scene photos at least give her fears a corporeal slant. Rather than phantom chills brushing her neck, now she feels like she's being watched. Still, she likes the idea of fighting something with a physical form. Jack can shoot a person, but she's not sure what Mac would come up with to capture a spirit.

Jack peers out the window again. Rain patters on the panes.

Mac tinkers with the generator.

After a debate whether or not to use the ghostly fire, they vote keep it burning. It’s cold. Their clothes still damp.

Bozer heats water for instant coffee. The warm mug feels good on Riley’s frigid hands.

“The first lighthouse keeper and his wife stayed for two years,” Riley breaks the quiet. “Mrs. Olsen stated when leaving that this island was the most inhospitable and undesirable place that can be imagined.”

“I don’t blame her for feeling that at all,” Bozer says. He’s been shaken since he and Jack returned.

“Those sentiments were repeated by every subsequent lighthouse keeper. In one hundred twenty years, not one left without expressing negative feelings for the island and the lighthouse.”

“I’m telling you, bad things happened here,” Jack says, moving to stand behind Riley and read over her shoulder.

“Accidents happen everywhere, Jack,” Mac argues.

“Not like this. Did you read this list?” Jack leans closer to the screen. "Not one family untouched."

“More bad things are going to happen if you don’t stop hovering over my shoulder,” Riley warns.

Jack murmurs an apology and paces back to the window.

Riley opens the file on the last lighthouse keeper. Skimming through their story, this family lasted on the island longer than any of the previous. The keeper starting his career shortly after his return from the Vietnam War. He remained alone on the island for nearly ten years, until he married and his wife took on the role of his assistant. Years passed and they had two sons. She smiles at the photo of the young family. A feeling of dread tickles the back of her mind. She glances as the dates of service and breathes a sigh of relief. It looks like he stayed on the island until he was decommissioned when the lighthouse was updated to be completely automated. Finally, a story that didn't end in tragedy.

Her brow furrows at the dates. It also coincides with the first active files as a CIA listening post. She opens her mouth to comment when a groan rises from the depths of the sodden ground, under the foundation.

It stops Jack mid-pace and Mac mid-tinker.

Riley exchanges a glance with Bozer. His mouth presses into a firm line.

“Okay, explain that one, professor,” Jack asks as the groan slowly fades away.

“The lighthouse could be settling. Lots of rain making the ground is soft.”

“It’s been here for a century and a half, shouldn’t it be settled?” Jack says with derision. “It’s not going anywhere.” He flinches, remembering he used the same words to describe the body.

Mac stands suddenly, moving to stand next to the wall. “Or it’s the wind.”

“I don’t think that was wind through the trees, Mac,” Bozer says slowly. “I really want it to be, but that came from below.” Bozer gestures at the floor.

“If this place was built in the eighteen sixties, shouldn’t it have some sort of root cellar? They can't run into town for supplies, they'd have to be prepared to last several months through the winter without anyone being able to reach them,” Mac frowns running his hands along the walls. “Did you see anything like that on your sweep?”

Jack shakes his head, standing to join Mac in his search, feeling for seams in the old torn wallpaper. “No outside cellar doors attached to the house. If the door was flush to the ground the weeds may have covered it.”

“This whole area is solid rock, could they have dug a root cellar?” Bozer asks. He turns to the wall behind him, focusing on the built-in bookshelves, pulling worn but well-preserved books carefully from the shelves.

“Could have done some blasting. For this lighthouse to stay standing this long in these storms they’d need a solid foundation,” Mac says. He turns from the wall, watching the firelight flicker. “There’s a draft coming through here, somewhere, and I bet it’s coming up from the basement.” Mac’s finger circles in the air.

He crosses the room to the writing desk, pulling open antique drawers, rummaging until he finds what he’s looking for, a long candlestick and a box of matches.

“Not going to wait for a live ember to light your candle for you?” Jack asks sarcastically.

Mac shoots him a pained look, ignoring the taunt and striking the match. He holds the candle near the wall watching the flame dance, casting eerie shadows. He moves through the room, letting the flame guide his steps. He nears the wall and with a sudden puff the small light goes out.

“Here,” Mac says, fingers searching, sweeping against the interior wall. “Behind here.”

Pushing, pulling, tugging at the wall.

Jack runs his fingers along the top of the wall.

Riley’s fingernails scratch and dig at the bottom. At the seam of the wallpaper. Searching for the source of the draft. Jack offers to battering ram through it.

Bozer reaches for the light fixture twisting and turning and there’s an audible click. They freeze. The catch releases. Mac pushes against the wall, sliding it into itself like a pocket door, revealing a steep staircase.

Jack draws his gun, switching on the maglite. “Let me go down first.” He gestures for the rest of the team to stay back

The air is damp and cold.

Another moan escapes the dark mouth of the room.

Mac stays close on Jack’s six.

The pitch darkness oppressive, suffocating despite the breeze the drifts against his skin.

The floor at the bottom of the stairs is hard-packed dirt and solid rock. Mac feels cinder block beneath his fingertips, using the wall as a guide through the rooms.

Jack’s light sweeping systematically, bouncing over walls. He clears one room, then the next. The cellar a deep chasm and each breath seems to rasp against the walls and echo. Wider, longer than he anticipated, extending beyond the dimensions of the house above them.

He keeps expecting to see a pair of eyes glowing in the darkness.

Or a shadow to skirt away from the beam.

In the far back room, his light falls on a steel door with a tumbler lock.

“I think you’re up, hoss,” Jack says, shining his light at the lock.

Mac’s nimble fingers trace the outline of the cold metal door, sliding over hinges, searching for tripwires or traps. He places his ear above the lock, slowly turning the dial, listening for the tumblers to drop.

Left. His hands tremble from cold and adrenaline, fingertips scraping on the metal. He has to pause, flex his hand because it's distracting from clicking tumblers

Right. His heart beats loudly in his ears.

Left again. His breath rough and uneven. He releases a slow, cleansing breath to illuminate dark corners of his imagination running wild.

Riley keeps her light on the lock, while Bozer and Jack direct their flashlights to opposite ends of the room, sweeping slowly, making sure no one sneaks up on them from the shadows.

There's a loud click in Mac's ear.

“That should be it,” Mac says, lifting his head. He grasps the lever and pulls. The door releases and Bozer helps him push the heavy door back while Jack shines his light inside.

Three blindfolded, gagged figures trussed to chairs. The missing analysts.

Mac steps forward, pulling the blindfold and gag from the young woman of the group.

She shakes at his touch, despite his assurances, "we've got you, we've got you."

She flinches as the light hits her eyes. “Please,” she gasps. “What do you want?”

“I’m Agent MacGyver of the Phoenix Foundation,” Mac reassures, “we’re here to rescue you.”

“Oh thank god,” she cries. “I’m Rebecca Kehring.”

Jack pulls out his tactical knife and begins sawing through ropes of the other prisoners.

Mac frowns as he listens to the analysts tell their story, as he slices through the ropes holding them to the chairs. Kehring was grabbed first, alone in the living room, getting a jump start on her shift while the others were upstairs. They groan, massaging aching wrists and shaking out the pins and needles sensation.

Whitman captured next, the two blindfolded in the dark for hours before Sanderton was captured. Left alone in the house, trying to radio for help, the signal blocked by the storm and cloud cover.

“Where’s Damien?” Kehring asks, looking around.

“I’m so sorry. We found Damien Rivera’s body in the utility shed.” Bozer answers, placing his hand on her shoulder as she gasps at the news.

Mac still can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right. He tunes out the voices around him, listening intently to the wind and the creaking of the house, there's something tickling his brain. Something important.

Kehring asks for a flashlight and begins inspecting the walls of the cell. “They were in and out of here often. It surprised me. I know we were tied up and blindfolded, but it seemed odd that they would keep us in this room if they needed it so often” She blows on cold fingers.

“We’ll get some more light then come back down here and really search,” Jack says. “There’s a draft coming through here. I wouldn’t be surprised if we found a tunnel that led right down to the ocean. A hidden bay where a boat could be kept.”

“I saw some hurricane lamps in a closet upstairs,” Riley says. “Think you can figure out something to do for oil, Mac?”

There’s a long pause.

“Mac?” Jack asks, flashing his light in the faces of the room.

A door slams upstairs.

“Mac!” Jack yells, bolting for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“Jack, he’s getting away,” Mac’s voice rings out, pounding footsteps across the living room and the stormdoor bangs shut again.

“Damn it, Mac, wait for me!” Through the house and out the door, and out onto the small covered porch. The rain coming down in sheets. He spies Mac nearing the edge of the clearing, disappearing into the trees.

Jack takes off, slipping on long wet grass. Splashing through a puddle, he sinks ankle deep and feels the mud release his shoe with a pop and squelch.

Rain pelting him from all angles. He squints against the rising fog.

Into the trees, he follows Mac. The rain not as heavy, blocked by dense foliage.

Branches reach out to grab him, scratching at his face. Tearing at his clothes.

He leaps over a log, twisting his ankle when he lands on soggy bark. He lets out a growl of pain, and pushes through, ignoring the pulsing ache from each step.

His breath ragged in his ears.

He lost them. Shadows taunt and tease.

He hears Bozer catching up behind him as he slows, using the beam from his flashlight to drive away the obscurity the gloom provides.

He catches a glimpse of color, blonde hair, blue plaid, at the edge of the forest and presses on. Out of the woods, back into the torrential rain. Dashing into the darkness and the storm.

Mac gives a chase, long legs eating up the terrain, continuing to outdistance Bozer and Jack.

“Mac!” Jack hisses, not wanting to alert their quarry that his partner is rapidly gaining on him, but wanting Mac to slow down and wait for backup.

The fury of rain stings against his eyes, nearly blinding him.

Lightning flashes across the sky, illuminating the rocky cliffs ahead.

Beyond those cliffs, nothing. Yawning darkness. Blackness.

Mac ignores the warning from Jack. He’s a mere few feet behind the shadowy figure. Putting on a burst of speed he throws himself toward his prey. They stumble together. Grappling arms. A clash of limbs.

Thunder rolls.

The wind steals Jack’s voice. His frantic yells go unheard.

The wrestling pair spins closer to the cliff edge.

Across the escarpment, legs burning, Jack brushes rain from his face. He can barely make out the shadowy figures struggling.

Another flash of lightning.

The ambient light hangs in the air, finally giving him a clear view. He pulls his gun, as he runs closer. Yells for Mac to duck. Move. Let him take a shot, wing the suspect.

With horror, he watches as the pair twists and tumbles. Tipping over the precipitate.

His blood runs cold at Mac’s yip of surprise before he disappears.

Jack skids to a halt, Bozer’s grip on his shoulder the only thing that keeps Jack from following Mac over the edge.

“Mac!” Jack screams. The beam of his flashlight frantically bounces along the cliff, against the waves, searching. Seeking.

The churning sea crashes against the rocks, nearly thirty feet down.

Jack screams Mac’s name again. Over the wind and the pounding in his ears, he can faintly hear Bozer doing the same.

Searching for a head to break over the dark waves.

Futile.

For a body to bob to the surface.

Desperate.

Anything.

“Come on, come on, kid. Don’t leave me like this.”

Jack tries to shrug out of Bozer’s grasp.

“Jack!”

“I have to get down there!” Jack yells to be heard over the storm. Voice taut with emotion.

“How? It’s a sheer cliff.” Bozer yells back. Rain pours over them.

“Mac’s down there.”

“I know,” Bozer’s voice cracks.

“Let me go!” Jack struggles against Bozer’s hands. “Mac!”

The wetness on Bozer’s face isn’t from the rain. “We’ll call back up. Ex-fil. The Coast Guard.”

Jack shakes his head, still scanning the opaque waves. “It’ll be too late.”

“You’ll kill yourself climbing down there in this storm,” Bozer yells to be heard over the crashing and the desperation.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Riley needs you.”

Jack freezes. Riley needs him too. Needs him to keep them safe from the killers on the island. They’ve killed at least twice now.

“He survived a fall like that one before…”

Bozer’s flashlight sweeps the angry seas again. “He would have broken the surface by now. He’s a strong swimmer.”

It feels like an icy hand has forced its way into Jack’s chest, breaking ribs, taking hold of his heart, squeezing. Choking the very life from him. He can't breathe.

“No. No. No. You can’t do this.”

Jack collapses to his knees, eyes still desperately scanning the waves.

“You can’t be gone.”

* * *

Riley looks up eagerly as the door opens. Relief floods through her. She was about to head out and search for them, let the analysts fend for themselves. If they're dumb enough to get captured twice that's their problem, not hers. Jack can yell at them about situational awareness if they need to get rescued again. After he's finished scolding Mac about taking off alone without telling anyone what he's thinking. _"You gotta give us time to catch us, hoss. Your big brain is miles down the track before the rest of us are even pullin' out of the station."_

She watches as a soaked Bozer enter, followed by a bedraggled limping Jack.

“Well, you were gone long enough," she teases. "Did you catch him?” She feels her heart stutter and stop when Mac doesn't follow, wet hair dripping in his eyes, and a sheepish grin on his face, for scaring her and for the chewing out Jack's probably already started. She turns, looking at Bozer and Jack, and their grief-stricken faces, and she knows.

“Where’s Mac?” She whispers. Every cell in her body screaming.

“I’ll, I’ll get the Coast Guard on the horn,” Jack’s voice is tight, hanging onto the barest thread of control.

Riley looks between Jack and Bozer.

“He, uh,” Bozer begins, clearing his throat. “He caught them. There was a struggle. They both went over the edge.”

Riley breathes out a quiet “no,” as Bozer continues.

“He didn’t break the surface. And we couldn’t get down there.”

Her hands cover her mouth. Tears fill her eyes. Bozer tugs her into a tight embrace, her arms crushed against her chest and she continues to gasp aborted breathes between her hands.

Tears stream down Bozer’s face.

Jack is stoic. His face a mask of granite. She watches him, from between fingers and over Bozer’s shoulder.

Fury burns ice cold.

He has a mission. Get everyone home safely. Bring whoever is responsible, whoever is left, to justice.

When he finally allows himself to break, it’s going to be volcanic. Erupting with vengeance and fissures of pain that Riley doesn’t believe will ever heal. She quietly untangles herself from Bozer’s embrace, stepping up to Jack and placing her hand on her arm.

In any other circumstance, she would reach out to him, hold him. Offer comfort. In any other circumstance she wouldn’t need to, he would already be hugging her, arms tight, head cradled in a way that makes her feel like she’s the safest person on the planet.

The painful choke from deep in Jack’s throat makes her freeze.

Jack’s eyes close. He bites his lip, then looks down at her hand and just for a second the mask slips. She sees pain so deep she can’t fathom it.

“Not yet.” He whispers.

And then the mask is back.

He turns from her, pulling the sat phone from their gear and moving into the kitchen to make the call. She listens to his clipped gruff words request backup. Search and recovery.

Shuffling in the room reminds her of the analysts, recently rescued. She needs to finish the mission. It’s what Mac would want. Continue her algorithm search, question the techs about their experiences, discover the identities of those behind this breach.

She catches Bozer’s eye and with a small nod, he swipes at his damp cheeks and follows her lead.

“You said there were two of them,” Riley asks, turning toward the three analysts wrapped in blankets to ward off the chill from their extended stay in the cellar.

“That we saw,” Kehring answers.

“So, if one went over…” Riley clears her throat. “The other is alone now.”

Kehring bites her lip. “I got the impression that they were both following orders.”

Whitman agrees. “Neither one of them acted like they were the mastermind.”

Sanderton scoffs. “You could tell that from the ten minutes you spent with them?”

“There was always a hesitation before they acted,” Kehring defends her theory.

“Maybe they weren’t expecting people to be here,” Sanderton retorts.

“My job is to analyze evidence, and reach a conclusion. I’m saying based on my experiences…”

“Oh yes, your extensive experience. How many years is it now? Two?” Sanderton rolls his eyes. “And you, Whitman, have you made it to the five year mark yet?”

The two younger analysts begin to shrivel under Sanderton’s piercing gaze.

“So it only took two of them to get the jump on all three of you?” Jack steps back into the room. He looks Sanderton up and down. “Getting slow now that you have… what thirty years of experience?”

“Either way, we can't let down our guard,” Riley interrupts recognizing the fire in Jack’s eyes, he’s jockeying for a fight, something bloody and brutal to bury his pain.

“Matty’s sending backup. Coast Guard. Ex-fil. A TAC team,” Jack's words are clipped. “We’ll do a grid by grid search of the island and surrounding waters.” He clears his throat. “But they have to wait for a break in the storm. Conservative estimate, that could be about three hours.”

“We can search the cellar for the tunnel,” Riley suggests.

“There are some boxes of CIA files in a crawl space upstairs. Maybe those would have updated blueprints,” Jack says. “I’ll search the ground again. I’m already soaked.” Jack turns towards the door.

“So am I,” Bozer says. “I’ll come with you.”

“No,” Jack stops him. “Get into some dry clothes, then go through those files. Riley, do your boopity boop thing and see whatever you come up with.”

He turns on his heel and strides back out into the storm.

* * *

Riley cycles through her keyword algorithm, searching the files laid before her like a feast of information now that she broke the encryption.

Her eyes skimming through dossiers and case reports.

She ignores the thumps above her head, knowing that it’s Bozer and Kehring pulling out the paper copies of files that Jack found in the attic.

It bothers her that Jack is outside in the rain.

Searching again the barn and utility shed at the edge of the property. Alone.

Banished himself to the elements, wet shoes and harsh winds, punishment for his failure. His one duty. Protect Mac. The mission that gave his life purpose again, from the way he tells it.

The idea of Jack without Mac terrifies her. She’s read his file. The kills. The assassinations. Wetwork and blacksite missions. The spiraling darkness that she read between the lines of his mostly redacted mission reports. Until Mac.

She’s not scared of Jack, even with the blood she knows is on his hands. She’s scared for Jack. For Jack to face his demons alone. To be lost in the dark without his north star to keep him steady.

She hears him tapping along the foundation of the house, searching for another entrance.

Kehring swore no one but her coworkers were in the house when she was grabbed from the living room, the secret passage to the cellar never opening and both doors bolted from the inside.

Whitman and Sanderton denied hearing anything in the early morning hours when she was grabbed. And according to their timeline, both were grabbed in succession a few hours later. They’re searching the cellar now.

Leaving Riley alone in the living room. She ignores the shiver across her shoulders, the damp air from the cellar chills the room even further, despite the heat from the fireplace.

Riley clicks back through the history of the lighthouse. None of the blueprints list a cellar. Not in the initial plans or the subsequent renovations.

She skims through the list of island residents and finds her eyes drawn again to the last family. She opens their file, reading thoroughly to the end this time.

Her jaw drops open. She clicks to enlarge the photo at the end of the file, her mind racing. Pieces clicking into place. The picture still incomplete, but it's enough.

She knocks on the window to catch Jack’s attention. Frantically beckoning him to come inside.

He appears in the doorway a moment later, gun drawn, clearing the room and ready for a fight. Fear churning in his gut at Riley's summons. Rainwater dropping with splats onto the hardwood floors.

Riley presses her finger to her lips, listening to the thumps of the other agents moving through the house, then gestures to her computer, watching as Jack shakes off the rain then crossing the room silently, avoiding every squeaky floorboard. She’s impressed once again by the skills that he displays. Second nature, he doesn’t even need to think about it.

Jack stares at the photograph on the screen. “Is that Sanderton?”

“Look at the date,” Riley whispers.

“Thirty years ago…”

Riley nods. “That’s Michael Sandston the last lighthouse keeper on the island. About a year before he was decommissioned, his wife and youngest son drowned under mysterious circumstances. The last documented tragedy of Cana Island.”

“Until now,” Jack murmurs.

Riley’s heart aches.

“And the oldest son?”

"There’s no paper trail that I can find. No updated addresses, work or credit history. He drops off the grid after leaving. But I think we found him.”

“He grew up here, he’d know about any hidden passages. He still downstairs?”

“With Whitman.”

Jack nods, drawing his gun, gesturing at Riley to stay here, but she creeps after him, stepping in his footsteps, descending the stairs, watching for his presence to be noticed. Listening for any sound that will help orient him to the analysts' location in the room. But the cellar is silent and Jack has a bad feeling.

The flickering hurricane lights give the already eerie cellar a frighteningly wraith-like ambiance.

Jack quickly clears the three large earthen rooms and the crawl space that served as a prison earlier today.

“They’re both gone,” Jack growls in frustration.

“Are they both in on it?”

Jack holsters his weapon, then scrubs a hand across his face.

“They didn’t come up these stairs,” Riley says. “I was in the living room the whole time.”

“Then we were right, there really does have to be a tunnel down here.” Jack stops. “Bozer and Kehring are upstairs?”

Riley nods.

Jack takes the stairs two at a time. No attempts at stealth. He’s lost one friend today, he’s not going to lose another one, and until he figures out what the hell is going on here, he's not trusting anyone.

* * *

Jack takes the lead as the tunnel slides opened. It’s wider than he expected. Everything about the island has been different than he expected.

Except that it’s haunted.

That tragedy strikes without warning.

And that they never should have come here.

Kehring looked shocked when Jack told her that her fellow analysts disappeared, presumably knowing the location of the tunnel and deciding to make their escape. She’s next in line, keeping in step with Riley and Bozer taking up the flank.

Mac’s trick to finding the door took a little longer. The large rooms drafty and chilled and the flame flickered with even the slightest movement. A depression in the stone wall released the hatch.

Jack tightens his grip on his gun. He expects Whitman and Sanderton to be long gone. A boat hidden from aerial view in a rocky bay. He wonders if they would chance the storm.

He hopes they drown.

When he finds them, he’ll send Bozer and Riley back to the house.

Then he’ll make sure they do.

Thirty paces down the hall, Jack’s light falls on a pair of outstretched legs. He moves forward quickly, peering down the dark corridor before squatting next to the body. The bloody gash across his temple, and pallor of the rapidly cooling skin tells Jack the man is dead. He feels for a pulse anyway, not surprised when he doesn’t find one.

“Jack?” Riley questions.

“It’s Whitman. He’s dead,” Jack turns to look up at the three concerned faces staring back. “He’s not cold yet, so not long.”

“Do you think they had a falling out or was Whitman just another victim?” Riley asks, suddenly feeling guilty for thinking he was a suspect and wishing ill on him.

“He was a friend,” Kehring says quietly. “I can’t believe he would be involved in… in whatever is going on here.”

Jack doesn’t acknowledge the question. “Sanderton can’t be too far ahead,” he stands and moves down the corridor.

“You can’t just leave him like this?” Kehring protests.

“Crime scene,” Jack replies, his voice hollow. “Can’t move him. He'll be waiting for us when help arrives. He'll get a burial.”

Mac never will. He'll never see Mac again. Lost forever.

Their footsteps scuff along the earthen path. Each loose pebble that skitters when kicked by uncertain feet in the darkness drives Jack mad. He wants to shout and scold that they’re giving away their location. Wants to send them back up the tunnel to the house, but he can’t. Not until he knows how many there are. Can’t risk sending Riley and Bozer back into danger. Not when they’re all he has left.

The air is getting colder, the ground boggy. They must be getting closer to the exit, to the ocean.

It muffles their footsteps.

A low rumble fills the air. The ground shakes beneath their feet, the walls of the tunnel rattle. The acrid scent of smoke and gunpowder reach Jack’s nostrils. If he didn’t know better he’d say he recognizes that specific blend of explosives.

He pushes forward, the ground sloping downhill, around a curve and a bend. The air becoming thick with smoke and dust.

A precariously stacked pile of stone lies in their path. Dust still rising from the recently disturbed rocks. A hand stretches out from underneath, as they move closer a bloody face is visible between cracks and gaps.

It doesn’t quite block the tunnel, they can still make it past if they scramble over the rocks, but Jack holds up a hand, stopping them a few yards back.

“Let me check for more explosives,” he instructs.

Cautiously, he moves forward, recalling mumbled ramblings from Mac about the placement of explosives and detonation caps, tripwires, and traps.

“I don’t see anything,” Jack says, crouching next to the pile. He reaches for the outstretched arm, searching for a pulse. “He’s dead too. One by one.” He turns back to look at the trio watching him.

“So, was this a trap or…” Riley’s voice trails off.

“Or blew the tunnel to keep anyone from following him and got caught in his own explosion.”

Unstable rocks slide and shift on the pile. A raspy breath echos.

Jack whirls, aiming his gun into the darkness. “Show yourself,” he commands.

“Don’t shoot,” the voice is weak. Thready. But he would recognize it anywhere.

The figure shuffles into the beam of the flashlight, limping hard and listing to the side. Hands raised in surrender. Blood coats one side of his face.

He’s looking at a ghost.

“Mac!” Jack rushes forward just in time to catch Mac as he pitches forward.

Mac’s fingers scramble for purchase against Jack’s shirt, trying to hold himself upright as his legs give out. Shivers wrack his frame.

His skin is cold against Jack’s hand. Each breath labored and wheezing.

Jack gives his gun to Riley and his flashlight to Bozer. He slides his jacket off, wrapping it around Mac’s shuddering shoulders. Then scoops Mac into his arms.

Mac lets out an agonized cry that reverberates through the tunnel, making Jack’s blood run cold.

“What is it, kid?” Jack asks breathlessly.

Mac shakes his head then rests against Jack’s chest.

“Ribs,” Mac moans. “It’s okay. Just get me out of here.”

“Don’t sleep,” Jack cautions.

"Too cold to sleep,” Mac’s teeth chatter.

Bozer adds his coat, tucking it over Mac, and Mac smiles gratefully. A weak, wet, pain-filled smile that makes Jack’s heart beat out of his chest. He tightens his grip on Mac, holding him close. He never thought he’d get to do that again. Thought there wouldn’t even be a body for him to bury. Tortured himself with the idea that Mac was surrendered to the deep.

He tells himself that the shaking he feels is still Mac’s shivers from cold, not his own muscles trembling with barely restrained emotion. The trek back up the tunnel is longer than he remembers. He steps firmly, pushing past the ache that burns through his ankle. Determined to keep his gait steady and not jostle Mac.

He sends Riley up the stairs first. Kehring next, still not sure if he can trust her. Bozer follows Jack with a hand against his back, keeping him steady on the narrow steep staircase. 

Riley has already laid a blanket out next to the crackling fireplace. Jack lowers Mac to the floor.

“Grab some dry clothes,” he instructs, unbuttoning Mac’s flannel shirt and batting away Mac’s frozen, clumsy fingers that try and fail to help. Jack peels off the sodden layers, accepting another blanket from Bozer and wrapping it around Mac’s shoulders as he struggles with Mac’s pants and socks.

In the firelight, Mac’s normally pale face has taken on a stark pallor. His lips are blue, fingertips and toes too.

Riley towels Mac’s hair, using the motion to gently clean the blood from the side of his face.

“You got any hot chocolate in your goodie bag, Bozer?” Jack asks. “He could use something warm and sugary.”

“I’m gonna make a cup of the world’s sweetest hot chocolate,” Bozer scampers to his go bag and starts pulling out ingredients.

“Toss me a first aid kit too,” Jack says. He pats Mac’s cheeks, then rests his hand on Mac’s shoulder and waits until tired blue eyes meet his. “You with me kid?”

Mac gives a sharp nod, reaching up and grasping Jack’s wrist when the room spins.

Jack grabs one of the flashlights nearby, gives Mac a quick warning before flashing it into his eyes. Mac flinches at the light but holds still.

“What happened? How did…” Jack’s voice trails off. Wanting desperately to know how Mac survived. Guilty that he left his friend to suffer and find his way home on his own. Mac’s jaw is bruised, shoulder too. Ribs are turning a deep purple and Mac cries out when Jack’s fingers skim against them, definitely cracked, and Jack prays that he didn’t cause internal damage when he lifted Mac into his arm. His fingers probe against Mac’s belly, muscles tense. Contracted and shivering, but not firm or distended in a way that warns of bleeding into his abdominal cavity.

Bruises cover Mac’s hip and continue down his leg. He must have hit the water on that left side causing him to be one large long bruise. Jack runs his hands down Mac's leg and arm, searching for breaks and displacements. Then he pulls a pair of warm wool socks onto frigid feet.

“I remember falling,” Mac’s voice thready. “I thought… I thought this was it. The waves were so loud.” Mac shivers harder.

So does Jack. His has less to do with cold and everything to do with fear.

With Riley’s help, Jack wriggles Mac into a sleeping bag. He pulls off his shirt then slides in behind him, flinches as the cool skin of Mac’s back touches his chest, wrapping his arms around Mac’s core. Mac shakes in his arms. He can feel Mac’s chest rattle with each breath, water crackles in his lungs.

“I remember hitting the water,” Mac continues. “It hurt. Felt like hitting concrete. And so… so c-cold.”

Bozer stirs the pot of hot chocolate over the fire, metal clinking against metal in a soothing pattern.

Mac coughs, flinching. He can't hold back a whimper as the pain jars his ribs. Jack rubs his hands against Mac’s chest, for comfort and warmth.

“I think someone pulled me out.”

Jack’s hands stop rubbing, he looks up at Bozer and Riley. Bozer stops stirring and turns to look at Mac’s pale face. His eyes closed.

“A woman,” he continues, not realizing the way his mumbled story has caused the room to stop in shock. "She wasn't... wasn't really there though, but she didn't want me to drown."

Riley frowns. She looks for all the world like she wants to say something, but refrains.

“I woke up in a cave. It was dark but there were lights.”

“Lights?” Jack asks with concern, wondering if this operation on the island is bigger than he thought.

Mac hums. “Not really. More glowy.” Mac sighs, his head starting to bob. "Like an orb."

“Hey, stay awake,” Jack orders. “Tell me more about the glowy not really lights.”

“Always just a few steps ahead of me...” Mac murmurs. “So cold.

Bozer brings over a mug, wrapping Mac’s shaking hands around it. His hands supporting Mac’s and guiding the steaming cup to Mac’s lips. Mac takes a sip and sighs.

“It’s warm.”

“How did you find your way back?” Riley asks, hanging Mac’s wet clothes near the fireplace to dry.

“The glow. So many tunnels and passages, but I went where the glow led me,” Mac raised the mug to his mouth again, unaware of the way his words affected the occupants of the room.

Riley, Bozer, and Jack continue exchanging glances.

"Showed me the boxes. Gunpowder," Mac mumbles. "Sandston had to be stopped."

Riley lets out a sharp breath. Mac couldn't know that name.

"Can I sleep?" Mac's voice is small.

"Not yet, bud," Jack runs his hand across Mac's forehead. "Finish up that hot chocolate first."

Mac gulps down the rest of the warm beverage, with Bozer's help. Then dozes restlessly, as the team debates Mac's story in half-spoken sentences.

"Do you think..."

"It couldn't be..."

"But how could he know?"

Mac cries out in his sleep, and Jack gently shushes him.

The pattern of the storm changes. The wind more rhythmic, pulsing.

“Riley,” Jack pulls his hand from the sleeping bag and gestures to the window. “Check what’s going on.”

She pulls back the curtains. “It’s the helicopter! It’s ex-fil!”

Jack bundles up Mac and warm dry clothes while Bozer and Riley gather the rest of their gear. Jack waits until Bozer douses the fire before gathering up Mac, and taking him back out into the elements, murmuring words of comfort as Mac stirs and squirms in his arms. Down the path to the clearing where the chopper waits for them. The wind has slowed and the storm gave way to a drizzle. The break they’d been waiting for. The medics meet them with a gurney when they see Mac in Jack's arms.

Jack helps Mac settle onto it. Holding Mac’s frigid hands as they bump along the path.

As they strap the gurney into the helicopter and Mac to the gurney, Jack whispers that he’ll be back in a minute.

Jack jogs back up the trail to the lighthouse, stepping back inside one last time, hoping for all the world that it is the last time. He never wants to come back to this cursed place again.

The last two duffels wait by the door for him.

The blankets they'd left strewn around the fireplace in their haste to leave are neatly folded and sitting on the sofa. When he peeks into the kitchen the saucepan and mugs from the hot chocolate sit, still dripping on the drying rack.

“Hey, Minnie,” Jack calls out. “I don’t know why you’re stuck here, doing domestic chores for eternity. But I am grateful. Thank you for saving my boy.”

With one more glance around the room, he picks up the last bags. He turns from the lighthouse and pulls the door shut firmly.

Inside a small fire sparks to light, illuminating the room with a cheery glow.

* * *

Mac is bundled on the couch, cup of hot chocolate in hand. He’s pretty sure he’s had more hot chocolate in the last three days than he’s ever had before in his life. Bozer attempts new recipes every few hours, and Jack made him Aztec chocolate, which might be the spiciest thing he’s ever put in his mouth. The chilies actually made him start sweating, which sent Bozer, Jack, and Riley into a mild panic, thinking he spiked a fever from the pneumonia.

He spent the first two day home in medical, under a pile of heated blankets. Attached to a heart monitor and IV drips of warm saline to raise his core temperature and antibiotics to fight off pneumonia. His lung sounds wet and coarse from mouthfuls of sea water, and the three broken ribs protested attempts at deep breathing, coughing and incentive spirometry to clear his lungs. Jack nestled behind him, helping him sit up and encouraging him through coughing jags that left him breathless and moaning in pain. Not leaving him. Nightmares of ghosts and drowning preyed on them in the midnight hours. Jack's hand rarely left Mac's as they slept.

Mac rests his head back, his half-finished cup of chocolate growing cold.

He feels Jack ease the mug from his hand, then calloused fingers rest against his forehead, and brush through his hair.

Mac opens tired eyes.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” Jack says.

Mac snorts and rolls his eyes. “You just can’t resist, even though that’s not the most accurate way to gauge a temperature.”

Jack shrugged. “By now, I got a pretty good idea about where you normally run.”

Mac pulls the blankets higher on his shoulder, snuggling deeper into the couch. His core temperature normal, tested half a dozen different ways, each one registering that he’s warm. But Mac still can’t shake the feeling of being frozen, deep in the marrow of his bones.

“It took Sarah months before she felt warm again,” Jack reminds him. “That place is haunted. Maybe that’s how the spirits can stick around. Stealing the heat from warm bodies.”

“Ghosts don’t exist,” Mac says firmly.

“That’s not what you said when we found you,” Jack reminds him. "Or when you found us."

“Plenty of explanations for what happened.”

Jack sighs. Since he woke in medical, Mac doesn’t remember anything about the island after he went over the edge.

“Concussion, hypothermia, oxygen deprivation from near drowning can account for my hallucinations.”

“How’d you make it through the tunnels then? If you didn’t follow the lights?”

“Lichen. The tunnels probably flood from time to time, and the air is damp and dank, perfect place for bioluminescent lichen to grow,” Mac explains again. An argument they’ve had multiple times since he woke up. “There’s still a team doing clean up. We could go visit and I could show you.”

“Oh, no, no. That island is a bad place. We never should have gone there, and we are never going back.”

Mac smiles. Truthfully, he agrees with Jack’s sentiment. He’s not sure if he believes the place is haunted, but it has had more than its fair share of tragedies. He doesn’t want to give the island another crack at him, or at Jack.

“Got about an hour until soup’s on,” Jack says, tucking the blankets around Mac’s shoulders, and smoothing a hand across forehead again, ignore Mac’s eye roll. Which is for show. Since he’s gotten back the only time he’s felt warm is when one of his friends is touching him. It’s comforting. Reminding him that he still belongs in the land of the living.

“Bozer’s making this squash soup with onions and it’s about the best thing I’ve ever smelled in my life,” Jack says. “And you have just enough time for another nap before lunch.”

Mac sighs, which morphs into a yawn. “That’s all I do now. Nap and eat soup.”

"That doesn't sound so bad. I'm glad you're still around to nap and eat soup."

A tiny shivers shakes through Mac again. Jack's hand reaches out, his touch easing the quakes and sending warmth through Mac's freezing blood.

With a small smile, and the confidence that Jack will stay with him now, and follow quickly behind him if he ever shuffles off this mortal coil, Mac allows himself to give into the pull of healing slumber.

**Author's Note:**

> The Cana Island Lighthouse really exists on Lake Michigan in Bailey's Harbor WI, and while it really was described as "one of the most inhospitable and undesirable places that can be imagined" in 1891, it's now one of Door County's most iconic and photographed lighthouses. 
> 
> The Sherwood Point Lighthouse of Sturgeon Bay, was home to Minnie Cochems. Her husband left not long after she passed away in 1928, but it's said that Minnie remains at the lighthouse, attending to chores such as washing dishes, making beds and setting the table for breakfast. 
> 
> _"Like a live ember buried under the coals"_  
"Or a dead body buried under the floor" was shamelessly stolen from The Dick Van Dyke Show episode "Ghost of A. Chanz." I highly recommend watching this episode (or all of them, it's probably the greatest sitcom of all time)


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